


Bullet

by werewolfsquad



Series: Habits [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt John Marston, M/M, Morston Week 2020, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Switch Arthur Morgan, Switch John Marston, it's mild hurt though, the plot is minimal and mostly just there to cause said feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolfsquad/pseuds/werewolfsquad
Summary: In the aftermath of a collapsed building, Hosea suggests John and Arthur take a hunting trip. Things between them come to a head.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Habits [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548916
Comments: 22
Kudos: 83
Collections: Morston Week 2020





	Bullet

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Morston week! I’ve had this fic in the planning stages for a bit, but I kicked up the writing of it in order to get it out this week. Can’t wait to read all the other Morston week fics, and I hope y’all enjoy this one, even though it doesn’t follow any of the prompts. 
> 
> This fic is part of a series, and I recommend at least reading “Canted” (the previous fic in the series) before this one to understand the context of the feelings happening between John and Arthur.

John was getting too used to waking up to bleary pain.

It was common enough, these days. More work, more risk. John had found himself more and more vital on jobs, seeing just how well he knew Dutch and what the man expected of him. It was inevitable, of course, that some would end badly, would end with him waking up pained with no idea what got him there.

It was his head that did it. A sharp throb, enough that it cut through the soft pull of sleep, and John blinked open his eyes.

The good news: he was in his tent, for one. Meant he was home, or the closest thing to it. Quiet too, no sounds of packing or wagons, the telltale signs of a rushed departure from a failed job.

Of course, could just have meant he was out long enough to miss the move.

The bad news: the ache, though strongest in his head, wasn’t just localized there. Felt like he was bruised all over, all down his back and along his arms. His left knee wasn’t quite right, like he’d twisted it wrong, and his foot on the other side felt something akin to having been stepped on by a horse.

He couldn’t help the groan the pain forced out of him, and somewhere next to him, he heard a chuckle, and then a voice saying, “So, you’ve finally decided to rejoin the world of the living?”

“Hosea?” John muttered, turning his head to the side and squinting.

Sure enough, the old man was there, book propped open on his lap. Looked like he’d been there for a while, keeping watch, maybe, with just how settled in he was.

John knew already that it can’t have been anything too serious, but the look on Hosea’s face confirmed it, how relaxed, unhurried it seemed.

Hosea leaned forward. “Gave us a bit of a scare there, John,” he said, but the tone was light, teasing.

“What happened?” John asked, trying to get his arms under him enough to prop himself up on his cot into a sitting position. All it gave him was a sharp pain in his head, and his hiss of pain earned him another snort from Hosea.

“If you move, you’re gonna make it worse,” Hosea said, putting his book down on the ground, like John was interrupting his valuable reading time. “Half the building came down. Reckon a couple’a bullets hit it wrong and the whole thing just collapsed.”

Made sense enough. John remembered only snatches of the job—some old trading post they’d chosen to lay in wait for a bank coach that was set to pass by. Hadn’t looked the sturdiest thing when they’d been casing it.

He racked his brain, trying to pull the memories from the far reaches of his brain. What came up wasn’t much—some loud noise that was likely a beam snapping, a body under him, and some vague thought that Arthur was gonna kill him.

“Arthur?” he asked, and immediately kicked himself for it.

Hosea, though, only gave him a smile that looked annoyingly perceptive, and leaned back. “He’s fine, though not by his own merit. Bruised some ribs and bashed his nose. Dislocated a shoulder too, though he blames that on you.”

John blinked, and gave Hosea a look. “Me?”

“When we dug you two out, you were out cold on top of him. Arthur indicates you shielded him, though not in so many words.” And Hosea’s voice was almost too knowing when he patted John on the knee, said, “Reckon you saved him worse, there.”

* * *

Arthur was avoiding him. That much was clear, once John was well enough to be walking around camp again. No matter where he went—by the fire, by the poker table, even Arthur’s own damn tent, the man somehow managed to be somewhere else.

It wasn’t like John was surprised, though. Things had been tense ever since the aftermath of Arthur’s bullet through the leg. They’d made it back to camp fine, to no worse than a lecture from Dutch, but Arthur hadn’t said more than a handful of words to John about anything besides jobs since then, and it had been near two months.

There was something between them. Had been for a while now, some warmth John had fostered deep in his chest for years. Attraction, maybe, but that wasn’t the whole of it, not with how desperate it felt. And he wasn’t alone in it either, not if Arthur’s reaction during that night in the woods was any indication.

But Arthur had elected to ignore it. Elected to be cold, and distant, and pretending that night in the woods and week in the cabin had never happened.

And now this. Total avoidance. And John couldn’t puzzle his goddamn mind around it.

John finally managed to corner Arthur on the second evening since Hosea had released him from bedrest, eating stew at the edge of camp where he likely thought John wouldn’t notice him. Didn’t realize John would be looking, maybe.

But John nearly missed his chance anyway, seeing as, as soon as Arthur spotted him, he was already trying to get to his feet, to leave. John knew that game though, and he snapped, just loud enough to reach Arthur, “What, you gonna goddamn run away again?”

And that got Arthur, as John knew it would. He threw a glare over at John, and then turned his body, squaring up firm. Like he was looking for a fight, or ready to finish one, whatever opportunity presented itself. Snapped right back, “What do you want, Marston?”

There was a graceful way to do this. But John couldn’t ever claim to be graceful, and he hated being brushed off below little else, so what came out of his mouth was, “The hell’s goin’ on with you?”

For a second, John thought Arthur wouldn’t answer. He was clenching his jaw, the muscles standing out. Hard, and angry, and John knew well enough just what tended to happen in the aftermath of anger around Arthur. Like this, the stitches across Arthur’s nose and lingering black eye were stark.

But then, “You ain’t had to do that.”

The words were spat, all hard and flinted, Arthur’s anger rolling through them. And yet, “What?”

Arthur growled, wiped a hand across his face. “Throwin’ yourself on top like that. Didn’t need your goddamn help.”

John had gotten more of the story at this point. He still didn’t remember half of it, something he was told was common enough with knocks to the head, but folks was plenty willing to share it around the campfire. With the building coming down, they were all running for the exit, except Arthur wasn’t going to make it. John, against his better judgement, had turned back, tackled Arthur to the ground to shield him.

John could hear the indignation in his own voice when he said, “You’re mad I saved your ass?”

And that was it alright, judging by the way Arthur turned another glare on John. “Don’t need you goddamn protectin’ me, Marson. You ain’t my goddamn keeper.”

“Arthur, I was savin’ your goddamn _life_ —” But as soon as John started, Arthur was throwing his stew bowl to the ground. And, even with John’s snapped, “Hey—” the man was gone into the darkness of the edge of camp.

* * *

“Huntin’?” John found himself asking a few days later, squinting at Hosea.

The man was looking at him like this was his next greatest con, and that alone got John suspicious. Hosea had all sorts of ideas, and just because most of them worked out for the better for the man didn’t mean the same was true for the rest of them. John had been forced into ridiculous costumes enough to know that.

But Hosea just rolled his shoulders. “Just want to make sure you still got your gun sense about you. Can’t have us losing one of our best guns.”

John squinted harder. “And you want me to _hunt_ t’prove it?

“Sure.”

John let the silence sit for a minute, and then, finally, caved. “Then why _Arthur_?”

And, of course, Hosea just gestured out to the camp at large, not letting anything slip. “You ain’t the only one crawlin’ up a wall, sittin’ around here. He ain’t been out since the two’a you got a building dropped on you. It would be good for you both.”

And that made a prickle creep across John’s skin, because nothing up to this point in any way made him believe that him and Arthur being alone together would be a good thing, and definitely not judging by the aftermath of the last two times. Why would a hunting trip be any different? And besides, “Don’t know why you think he’s gonna say yes, Hosea.”

It was Hosea, though, and Arthur had never been able to refuse Hosea.

* * *

They set off in the morning, with the light just barely breaking the horizon.

Arthur was painfully quiet. Wasn’t like the man was particularly loud to begin with, seeing as he was always more content to sit back and listen, observe, but usually that silence was amiable. Not so much this time, not when the few words he threw John’s way were curt, cold. So they spent the trip in silence.

Even when they set up tents and bedrolls a handful of miles away from the main camp, it wasn’t like they could go very far in terms of walking. John’s foot still pained him, the bruises just now starting to fade to yellows. That, combined with the fact that Arthur realistically shouldn’t have been shooting a rifle with his shoulder still healing, and they made a sight, the two of them. For not the first time, John suspected Hosea didn’t actually expect them to come back with anything in the way of food.

Instead, they posted up little more than a stone’s throw from their tents, in a clearing clearly trafficked by deer and elk fairly regularly. There, they settled down in respective spots an arm’s length from one another, and waited.

It was no great secret that John wasn’t a patient man. Had never been, had always been frustrated by stillness. This was the worst sort of hunting in that regard, not even tracking to distract him, give his mind something to focus on.

So, because he couldn’t help it, John found his thoughts drifting to Arthur.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other man. Journal open in his lap, a pencil sketching across one of the pages. Arthur’s face focused, concentrating. Like this, locks of Arthur’s hair fell across his forehead under his hat, brushed softly against his skin. John wanted nothing more than to touch, to brush his fingers over Arthur’s shoulders, his thighs, slide his palms under Arthur’s shirt and feel the warmth of his skin.

It hurt, this feeling. Had for a long time, something undefined and loose. Arthur’d been nice to look at for ages, some ideal to strive towards becoming some ideal to sleep with. Recently, though, it was worse. Still something John couldn’t put words to, but a desire so deep it was a weight in his stomach.

It was worse than a bullet, John thought. This ache lodged deep inside his chest. The want, and the heat of it.

He was staring, of course, but John didn’t even notice his own gaze until Arthur, without even looking up from his journal, muttered, “Quit it.”

John jerked his head away, but it was much too late. Snapped, more out of habit than anything else, “What?”

Arthur huffed, putting his journal to the side. “We really doin’ this?”

“Doin’ what?” John asked, because, as usual, he’d managed to piss Arthur off with no clear indication why.

Earned him a glare. “Havin’ this out in the middle of goddamn huntin’?”

And of course that was it. The idea of it, of Arthur being annoyed about them only talking now, rankled at John, because it weren’t like that was his fault. “Listen, I ain’t the one who ain’t wanted to talk for goddamn months.”

A snort from Arthur. “There ain’t nothin’ to talk about.”

The usual indignation was bubbling up again. “You don’t believe that, Morgan. Don’t goddamn play stupid ‘cause you don’t wanna face what’s goin’ on, ‘cause I know you too well for that.”

Apparently, he was touching a nerve, because Arthur was glaring at him, repeating, “There ain’t _nothin’_ to goddamn _talk about_ , Marston.”

“So it never happened? That’s what you’re gonna let yourself pretend? That it all weren’t nothin’? That we never goddamn fucked—”

“Christ sakes, John, _shut your goddamn mouth_.”

John’s mouth shut with a click. It was near involuntary. Not because of the barbed words, because he and Arthur traded those all the time, but because of the tone—Christ, if he’d never heard the pain in Arthur’s voice again, that would be just fine by John. Enough of an ache to stun him into silence like Arthur wanted.

There was a jingle of spurs beside him and Arthur heaved himself to his feet. His eyes were wild, and John knew, only because he knew Arthur so well, that the edge to them was something akin to panic. Arthur turned away from him, running his hands through his hair, and John barely caught the muttered, “Goddamn, I…”

“Arthur?” John said, his voice surprisingly soft in his own ears.

And then Arthur was whirling on John. John had been gathering his feet under him, standing up to follow Arthur, and suddenly Arthur’s fist was grabbing the front of John’s shirt, bodying him up against the nearest tree. Sent a throb through John’s head and foot, still not completely healed, but Arthur didn’t seem to care. Too close now for John’s own comfort, mad as he was, hissing, “Are you outta your goddamn mind, Marston?”

“ _What_?”

The question only earned John the scoff he thought it would. That was common enough as these things went, as much as the situation was still baffling. Still, he continued, “We’re in the middle of the goddamn woods, Arthur. Who’s gonna hear it? What’s your goddamn deal?”

Arthur shoved John again, though it was more half-hearted this time. “That ain’t the goddamn _point_.” And then, after a pause, Arthur swallowing, “We can’t keep doin’ this, John.”

The bark of the tree was digging into John’s back, but he didn’t care, not when Arthur was being so goddamn stupid. “Why the hell not?”

“You know the things they do to folks like us?”

“What? Hang us? Sure, ‘cause I’m damn afraid of getting strung up when I get bullets fired at me every other week.” And John peered at Arthur, a frustrated memory drifting in the back of his head. “Ain’t every man you ever left a bar with been the same? Why the hell’s _this_ supposed to be different?”

And then, quick, snapped: “’cause they ain’t ever _mattered_.”

The words hit John like a train, punched the air right out of his chest. Because all those years, the hurt and the want and the pleasure, all of it crystalized into this one moment. Arthur staring at him, glare plastered over something more fragile.

John _mattered_ in Arthur’s eyes.

He was stunned into silence, and Arthur must’ve realized it, because, “Goddamnit,” Arthur spat, and then he was letting John go, stepping back.

John followed him with a step forward, head still spinning. The world felt loose, untethered, because he was pretty goddamn sure Arthur was telling him he had _worth_. It was for stabilization more than even compassion when he asked, soft, “What in the hell’s goin’ on with you, Arthur?”

Arthur paused a moment, back of his hand pressed up against his mouth like something had frozen him in the act of wiping it. And then he dipped his head, and his voice nearly sounded painful in the act of ringing it from him. “I saw you John—Christ, I thought you were goddamn dead for a minute there. Dead on goddamn top of me, and I was gonna have to watch you have died for me. We can’t—I can’t live a life like that.”

John wasn’t good at this. At puzzling through conversations, all the emotions wrapped up in them. What he did know, though, is that this was the only life that made sense to him. “An’ what other life are we suppose t’live here, Arthur?” he asked, his voice equally low. “We just suppose t’pretend this ain’t never happened? Is that what you want?”

“Christ, I don’t—” Arthur cut himself off, a choked noise somewhere in his throat. Huffed a breath, like he couldn’t catch enough air in his lungs.

He could push, John thought, just a little more.

He stepped forward again, so close that he could almost feel the heat from Arthur’s skin. “Back then, y’said I ain’t asked, Arthur. Well, I’m askin’ now.”

It was no question just what John was asking. He could see that Arthur knew that by the look on his face, by the way he couldn’t make eye contact, the way his mouth turned slightly downward. And John thought, for a second, that maybe Arthur would say no.

But, instead, the man cleared his throat. Said, soft, “Alright,” and then, again, “Alright.”

John was already leaning in, and at the confirmation from Arthur, he found himself dipping in slow, and taking Arthur’s lips in a kiss.

When they’d kissed before, it had been rough, rushed, messy in their desperation. This wasn’t that. This was John with a hand on Arthur’s cheek, cupping his jaw. This was Arthur with a hand on John’s hip, light and careful. This was soft, and sweet, and all unlike the lives they led outside of this moment.

All tender, so much so that it almost stung.

Not without heat, though—John soon felt the crotch of his pants growing uncomfortably tight, and, if where Arthur was leaning against him was any indication, Arthur was much the same. When they broke apart, John was panting, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Tent,” Arthur said, his voice breathy, and John’s, “Right,” in agreement was nearly lost in his own throat. Christ, how he had missed this, this thing between them. The rightness of it.

It was a stumbling walk back to the tents, and a clumsy crawl into John’s. Too enamored with the feel of Arthur’s lips on his, John couldn’t even begin to think about any sort of graceful movement of his limbs, let alone with his foot still paining him. But Arthur was slipping John’s suspenders from his shoulders, and then John was going for the clasps on Arthur’s pants with fumbling fingers, his heart loud and hammering in his chest.

They were stripped down naked in what must’ve been record time, clothes and union suits all, everything tossed to a corner of the tent. And John was ready to lay Arthur down and take him, nothing too fancy about it, when, instead, Arthur started pushing John back by his shoulders.

“Lemme do the work,” the man muttered, shoving John down until he was sitting on his bedroll. “Ain’t worth makin’ Hosea mad ‘cause you hurt yourself worse.”

“Goddamn prick,” John muttered, because he was far from made of glass, but let Arthur climb on top of him anyway, and—

—and for a second, found himself confused, as Arthur settled himself down on John’s thighs. Not that he minded, not with how it brought his skin flush with Arthur’s, his cock rocking up against Arthur, just enough pressure to be tantalizing. But the position didn’t click until Arthur was fumbling with a tin of vaseline, dipping his fingers in before wrapping the hand around John’s cock.

“Easy there, Johnny,” Arthur said when the act got a noise from John, a low sort of moan from the back of his throat that he was too worked up to feel too embarrassed about.

“You try sittin’ through this, you bastard,” he snapped back, though he couldn’t bring himself to bring much venom into the words, not when Arthur’s hand was moving goddamn tantalizingly slow, coating, John with a liberal amount of petroleum jelly.

“Sure,” Arthur just muttered in response, an amused edge to his voice, and then he was taking his hand away, going back to the tin. John must have made sort of disappointed noise at that, because Arthur snorted at him.

“Y’ain’t the only one needin’ to be ready if we’re gonna do this, Marston.”

Right, of course. But—but John wanted to touch Arthur as much as possible above all. So— “Can I?”

Arthur gave John a look, something equal parts exasperated and annoyed, but he was just as soon passing the vaseline over to him, letting John slick up his fingers and reach back behind Arthur. And just as soon, John was sinking a finger into him.

Arthur’s head dropped to John’s shoulder, and the noise of his breathing made John shudder. They’d just gotten started, and Arthur’s breaths were already panting, rough and quick. Another time, maybe, John would take his time with this. Bring Arthur to the edge with his fingers, make him beg for it. But his own cock was so goddamn hard already, and he wasn’t going to delay any longer than possible getting it in on the action.

Seemed Arthur was much on the same page, though, because, “S’enough,” he eventually muttered, pulling at John’s hand. “Lie down.”

John’s heart was hammering in his chest, but he complied. Settled back onto the bedroll, let Arthur adjust on top of him.

John’s cock lay against his stomach, still hard and throbbing and slick, and when Arthur took it in his hand, John couldn’t help the noise that worked itself out of him. Because, goddamn, this was Arthur, Arthur breathing hard above him, Arthur with his own cock hard and curled up towards his stomach, Arthur bracing himself with a hand on John’s shoulder as the other reached behind him, guided John’s cock to his entrance.

In one movement, the head of John’s cock slipped inside Arthur.

By the sucked intake of air Arthur took, chest heaving, it wasn’t nothing, taking John like that. He adjusted his stance once, kneeling over John as he was, into something more stable, before, slowly, lowering himself down onto John.

John wanted to say something reassuring, something about not needing to rush, about John goddamn waiting as long as he needed for Arthur to take him fully, but words were hard to grasp, speech somewhere out beyond the reach of his fingertips. The world was reduced to just this moment, to Arthur slowly settling down in John’s lap.

And then Arthur sunk the rest of the way down and John suddenly couldn’t breathe, because Christ, the warmth, the feel of it, all over. Skin against skin, the weight of Arthur’s ass on his hips, cock on John’s belly. Arthur on top of him, Arthur _wanting_ this.

He couldn’t help but look at Arthur, drag his eyes down his face, chest, torso. Watched Arthur’s stomach twitching as his body presumably adjusted to the intrusion, his breath coming in long, labored pulls.

His cock is _in there_ , John thought. Hidden, but there all the same. He couldn’t help but reach out, touch with light fingers the skin of Arthur’s belly, feel the heat rolling off it. He found himself muttering, “Goddamn,” almost involuntarily, because all of this still felt surreal. Third time now he’d had his cock inside Arthur, and he still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t fathom that Arthur would allow this, and with him of all people.

Arthur’s stomach soft, pale, but not without the weight of years of hard work, all that the man did for the camp. Stunning in its realness, just like every other part of Arthur. And Arthur chuckled at him, a noise that John might have taken as mocking if it weren’t as breathless as it was, and rolled his hips.

John couldn’t help the noise that came from deep in his throat and his hand went to grip Arthur’s thigh, because, _goddamn_. It felt like every part of him was on fire with it, the feel of him inside Arthur, Arthur on top of him.

It must have felt just as good for Arthur, because he was near panting above John, skin already with a sheen of sweat. It was a moment before Arthur asked, still breathless, “Alright?”

“Christ, yeah,” John murmured, and then, “Goddamn, Arthur,” as he ran his hands up Arthur’s thighs, settled them on his hips. Even in the dim light of the tent, he could see the flush creeping up Arthur’s neck.

“Ain’t worth so much fuss as that,” Arthur muttered.

“It is.” John knew that deep down to his core. “You are.”

Arthur shook his head and started moving again, John thought, maybe just to shut him up. John didn’t mind though, because, Christ, how could he? Couldn’t do much beyond tilt his head back, revel in the moment. Couldn’t form any more words.

Letting Arthur do the work, indeed.

John hadn’t done it like this before. Sure, slept with plenty of men, but most of those had been rough encounters modelled after the way he’d seen Arthur pick up men in bars. Meant fucking them rough, usually with either him or the other man bent against the side of a building or over a bed. Never enough time for riding, not the way Arthur was doing it.

There was less up and down than he thought there would be. Some, sure, but Arthur didn’t seem to be intending to come all the way off his cock. Instead, Arthur would rock forward when he came up and backward when he came down, good arm still bracing him when it looked like he might lose his balance. Still plenty good for John, sure, but judging by the way Arthur’s breath would hitch every so often when he hit the right angle, the way he’d stick at the angle until he lost it, it was good for Arthur too.

John found his own hips moving up into Arthur despite his effort to keep them still and despite the weight of Arthur pinning them down. But Arthur didn’t tell him off for it, and so John kept it up, because the noises Arthur was making, the harsh, hitched breaths, the way his cock was leaking onto John’s stomach, meant John was making a decent set of interesting noises himself.

“Arthur,” he finally choked out, a warning, because he knew well enough what the tightening in his belly meant. About to come off like a goddamn teenager, because he still found himself overwhelmed by Arthur. His hips were moving harder now, thrusting up against Arthur, meeting him in just the right way.

Arthur was panting, the muscles in his thighs taut, but John knew well enough he got the message when he brushed one hand against John’s shoulder, hips still moving something fierce, and gasped, “C’mon, John.”

And goddamn, John did, grasping onto Arthur’s hips so hard that there would likely be bruises in the morning. Came so hard, in fact, that his vision, for a moment, went from him completely.

When the world came back to him, Arthur was still sitting on top of him, chest heaving in great, strong pulls. Not moving anymore, almost as if his strength had gone out of him completely. Loose, but with John still inside him.

His cock still hard, wanting.

John was reaching for it before he could even think it through, saying, “Can…?”

John didn’t even know what he himself was asking, but Arthur was already saying, “Christ, John, y’ain’t have t’ask,” and guiding John’s hand to his cock.

John took him slow. Not teasing, not when Arthur had already done so much for him, but careful, gentle. Wanting to make it good, and wanting to make it right.

But at the low noise of want Arthur made at the back of his throat, the way he settled into John, head dipping low until it was resting on John’s shoulder, all of it made John pick up his pace, pick up his pressure, until the wet slide of his palm over Arthur’s cock was all that filled up the tent, all that this moment reduced down to. All they were, all they had.

One last stroke, a murmured, “C’mon, Arthur,” just like Arthur did for him, and then Arthur was shuddering against him, spilling hard onto John’s belly.

* * *

It was a grey morning, at least from what light drifted into the tent. But that didn’t matter, not with the bleary warmth of Arthur pressed up against him, the both of them intertwined in a mess of limbs.

John wasn’t used to waking up with someone next to him. Last time that’d happened had been when he was a kid, still having nightmares enough that it helped to be able to hear someone breathe. Even the few partners he’d bedded since then usually departed quick enough after the act, more interested in the act of fucking than the aftermath.

But Arthur’s head was tucked up against his neck, his body flush against John’s. Still naked as the day he was born, and the warmth radiated from him, heating John’s bare skin where they touched. The most John could get of Arthur’s face from this angle was some hair, maybe a flash of forehead and nose out of the corner of his eye, but that didn’t matter. Not when he could feel the inhale and exhale of Arthur’s breath against the crook of his neck, could feel the pressure of his arm strung lazily across his chest.

Goddamn lucky, he was. Not only bedded the best man in the Van der Linde gang more than once, but able to lay with him like this too, skin-to-skin in the same bedroll, wrapped up with him the whole goddamn night long. They weren’t men used to living like this, having folks to wake up next to, to be sweet to. Maybe that was what Arthur was trying to say the previous day, that they didn’t live lives like this, but, frankly, John didn’t buy that.

They could be both, after all. John could rob and shoot and steal, and that didn’t change how this felt, waking up next to someone, feeling Arthur curled into him. This mattered. _Arthur_ mattered, and, if Arthur’s words the previous day were to believed, John mattered to him right back. That was worth any of the heartbreak.

Though less sweet, maybe, was the fact that John woke up hard.

No surprise, sure, but not particularly comfortable, especially with the heat of Arthur next to him. There hadn’t been much talking the previous night. Some semblance of cleanup, just so John wouldn’t have to deal with spend all over his bedroll, but it was mostly falling asleep where they lay. So of course John’s cock would be interested, would still be in the mood of the previous night, still feel the want of it.

Christ, even just thinking about it, John swore he felt his cock twitch.

Maybe, he thought in that part of his brain that made bad decisions, he could take care of it himself. Arthur could sleep like the dead at times, and there was no telling when he would wake. So John crept a hand down towards his crotch, and slowly, ever so slowly, wrapping his hand around himself.

And then, of course, there was a low chuckle, and John found himself flushing and jerking his hand back as if it were burned, stammering, “I weren’t—”

“Sure you weren’t,” Arthur muttered, picking up his head to look at John. When he had woke, John wasn’t sure, but he sure was goddamn awake now.

“Listen, you make it kinda hard—” and John cut himself off, face burning even more as he realized just how that could be taken.

Arthur, to his credit, didn’t take the bait. Just murmured, “C’mere, Marston,” and rolled onto his back, his legs parted just enough to be an invitation. Eyes closed in the lazy sort of way that just waking up could afford.

And John was going to jump at the chance, any chance he had for intimacy with Arthur, but a thought gave him pause, made him settle onto a position propped up on his elbows.

“How come—” he started, and then swallowed, trying to figure out how to word it. Opened his mouth again, asked. “How come it’s always you?”

Arthur peeled one eyelid open, regarding John sleepily out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm?”

John bit his lip, said, slow, “Y’know, you—you taking it?”

 _That_ got Arthur’s attention, and he opened both his eyes, looked at John carefully. And it made sense, of course—they’d only done it one way up ‘til now, John giving and Arthur receiving, and there were plenty of men who didn’t like taking because they thought it made them like a woman, made them less of a man. John wasn’t like that though, and he suspected that Arthur did it both ways as well.

Seemed he was right on that, because, finally, Arthur’s voice came, carefully, “S—s’at somethin’ you want?”

John shrugged his shoulders as Arthur sat up full. “Just want you, Arthur. Don’t much care how.”

Arthur was peering at him now, considering. “Y’done it like that before?”

John couldn’t help himself but to snort. “You ain’t even close t’the first man I’ve bedded, Arthur. You really think I weren’t gonna try it after seein’ you runnin’ off so many times?” In his late teens, John had been near desperate to have relations with men. It only made sense he would mimic Arthur in it.

“Don’t goddamn remind me a’that,” Arthur muttered, turning his head away. “Ain’t nothin’ you shoulda been doin’.”

“Right, ‘cause it’s so different when it’s you.”

By the look on his face, Arthur really thought it _was_. Because that was Arthur, of course—fine putting himself at risk any goddamn day, but it was suddenly a problem when other folks had the same idea. Probably didn’t even goddamn realize it was that sort of behavior that had started this whole mess in the first time.

John was starting to get soft again, and he _really_ didn’t want to miss out on this opportunity to find out how it felt to have Arthur inside him. “We gonna do this or what?”

Arthur snorted in response. “Ain’t doin’ the whole goddamn thing first thing in the morning, no.” And John barely had time to feel disappointed about that when Arthur was reaching for the tin of vaseline that had been tossed to the side sometime the previous night and saying, “I’ll get you off, though. F’you want.”

“Shit, yeah,” John replied, and lay back down.

Arthur nudged his legs apart, settled in between them. The benefit of never redressing in their union suits the previous night meant that there was no extra fuss about it, just straight to the thing, Arthur on his belly, John on his back.

John was expecting it when Arthur took one of his legs, pushed it up to the side, allowing him better access. He was expecting the sound of the vaseline lid unscrewing, then being screwed back on. He was even expecting the warm, slick fingers that pressed up against his hole. What he wasn’t expecting, though, was Arthur to take John into his mouth.

But it happened all the same, Arthur engulfing the head of his cock and then sinking down, his mouth hot and wet. And the feel of it, of Arthur coming up, sinking back down, was almost enough to distract Arthur when he sunk one finger into John.

Arthur didn’t get very far, though, before he was pulling back out. And John knew the reason almost immediately, knew it from the shallow breaths he was taking, too fast and all. He was too tense, all the more illustrated when Arthur pulled his mouth off of him. John was almost embarrassed of the noise of protest that worked its way out of his throat, but it didn’t change Arthur muttering, “Relax, John. We ain’t gonna get anywhere like this.”

“Tryin’ to,” John hissed back. And he was, but it was goddamn hard, seeing Arthur sink onto him like that, the anticipation thrumming through him.

Arthur snorted. “Thought you said you’d done this before.”

And that rankled at John, because his experience or potential lack thereof wasn’t the problem. The problem was, “It ain’t ever been with _you_.”

John couldn’t see much of Arthur’s face from this angle, but he could see the flush in his forehead, could feel him smoothing one hand down John’s thigh in what might have been an attempt to reassure him. Could hear him say, quietly, “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Honestly, the idea of Arthur hurting him was so far from John’s mind that it might as well have been an impossibility. He trusted Arthur, Christ, trusted him with his life. “S’okay,” John said, and dropped his head back to the bedroll, closed his eyes. Tried to let his body sink down into the ground.

This time, Arthur went slow. Slow both with his mouth, and his fingers. And when he pressed into John, it was with little resistance.

John quickly let himself get lost in the feeling. Because, sure, he’d done this before, had fingers in him before, but never like this. Any man out there slicking him up had done so with the prospect of fucking him, and so it had never been slow like this, never with the goal of pleasure from fingers alone. Never Arthur making sure he was good and open before adding a second finger, never Arthur paying equal attention to his cock, tongue and pressure in all the right places.

This was going to ruin all other men for him, all other men for the rest of his days.

And when Arthur curled his fingers, rubbed up at the right spot inside him, John’s back arched without him bidding it, because, Christ. He found himself fumbling a hand down, cupping it around Arthur’s head, just for grounding, to not let himself get lost in it.

Of course, Arthur then did it again, the bastard.

It wasn’t long after that. Arthur was too good, too experienced, for John to not come off too quick. He had time enough to get out a warning before he came this time at least, and so it was a surprise when Arthur still took him fully in his mouth and swallowed. Almost enough of a surprise for John not to come one of the hardest times he’d ever done in his life.

When his senses returned to him, Arthur was pulling off and out of him, making a face at what was likely the taste in his mouth. John was still panting, but managed to find it in him to huff, “You want?”

At the look Arthur shot him, John made a crude hand gesture, and Arthur made another face. “Nah. Some of us ain’t got the energy for all that much no more. Got mine enough last night.”

John snorted, dropping his head back to the bedroll. “Y’ain’t that old, Arthur.”

“Old enough,” Arthur said, and worked himself up to sitting, grabbing at the pile of clothes they’d shed last night.

John, on the other hand, lay back, letting his chest rise and fall in rapid cycles. It had been a long time, he thought, since he’d ever been this happy.

After a moment, Arthur kicked a heel at him. “C’mon. Hosea’s gonna have our hides if we come back with nothin’ at all to show for it.”

“Right,” John said, but didn’t move. He couldn’t help it—kept finding his mind drifting back to the conversation that had preceded all this, that argument in the woods. Arthur pretending there was nothing between them, that all they were had never happened.

What if that was what they were going back to?

Finally, when he couldn’t stand it anymore, he found his mouth asking, “Arthur?”

“Hmm?” Arthur hummed back, buttoning up his union suit.

It was a risk, John knew, bringing it up, but there was no other option. “We aren’t gonna go back to how it was, are we?”

Arthur wasn’t turned towards John, but the question froze him, fingers still on the top button of the suit.

John plowed forward. “’cause me, I don’t wanna forget this. It ain’t worth pretending this ain’t ever happened. Not when we could—we could be—”

Finally, something seemed to stir Arthur, and he brought a hand up, rubbed at his face, said, in a voice surprisingly choked, “Christ, John—”

But John was done with this, with Arthur avoiding this conversation. He kept pushing, said, “No, Arthur, I want goddamn answers. Why’re you so against this? What your goddamn problem?”

Arthur made a frustrated noise. “This ain’t gonna work ‘tween—”

“ _That_ ain’t gonna work with _me_ , Arthur. The _truth_.”

And that seemed to do it, because Arthur did something akin to a flinch, said, “Alright, alright, John, fine. Don’t—” Arthur’s voice broke at that, and when he cleared his voice, continued, it was gravely, saying, “Christ, John, don’t wanna get hurt.”

“ _What_?” To say the admission stunned John would be putting it lightly. He found himself looking at Arthur sideways, his mouth slightly open, because—because that was a level of vulnerability he wasn’t expecting, no matter how hard he’d pushed.

“Listen, I ain’t about to lose another person what matters. I can’t—” And Arthur made a wordless noise, something searching for the right words. Clenched a fist, let it open again. Said, slow, “I can’t do that again.”

John blinked. “That ain’t—what, you think I’m gonna just up and die?”

Arthur snapped his eyes over to John in a glare, because Arthur could never resist giving John that look that said he was stupid. “Kinda life we lead, John, you don’t know. How many folks have we lost already? One goddamn building ain’t fit to stand and you almost kick it?”

But that— “And you just think you oughta not care at _all_?”

Arthur bit his lip, looked away again. “S—” he started, and then, quieter, “S’easier just not to care.”

John found himself scooting a little closer, not willing to let Arthur look away, to get back out of this. “That ain’t the kinda life what’s right to lead, though.” And then, when Arthur snorted, looked further away, John grabbed him by the arm. “No, Arthur listen, right—folks get hurt, so what? We gotta accept that. You can’t—you can’t make yourself a miserable bastard just to save a little goddamn heartache. That ain’t right.”

Arthur eyed him, eyes red around the edges. “Who’re you to say what’s right?”

“Someone who goddamn _cares_ about you, you goddamn dense _bastard_.”

The indignancy in John’s voice was warranted, apparently, because Arthur couldn’t seem to come up with a response to that. He opened his mouth, shut it, then said, with a tone that said he knew it wouldn’t work, “Folks at camp—”

“Who gives a shit?” John snapped. “Dutch ‘n Hosea ain’t gonna care, else they’d’a gotten rid of us a long time ago, and they’re the only folks what matter. I dare goddamn anyone to say anything to me. I’ll feed them their goddamn teeth. This is goddamn worth it, Arthur.”

And that got an edge of a smile from Arthur, one that dropped just as quick as Arthur ran a hand over his face. John waited, waited as Arthur opened his mouth, shut it again, waited for Arthur to be ready. Finally, “Alright,” and then, “Okay, I hear you, John.”

“Don’t gotta be forever,” John said, soft, “but I ain’t want this to end here, neither.”

Arthur shook his head. “Christ, John, me neither.”

And then John was dipping forward, kissing Arthur. And Arthur was kissing back just as quick, all hard and bruising and desperate, like everything in the world was crystalizing at this point. Like the world finally felt right, and it did, because Arthur was finally accepting this for what it was, because they were finally getting a _chance_ , getting a chance _together_.

Finally, they broke apart, but it wasn’t much, Arthur instead resting his forehead against John’s. And John let him, let himself rest in that warmth for a few moments.

Arthur breathed a sigh, but there was an edge of fondness to his voice when he said, “You’re a goddamn bastard, John Marston.”

John snorted. “And that’s why y’keep me around. Huntin’?”

“Huntin’,” Arthur muttered, despite his words, seemingly not content to move yet. “Gotta appease Hosea somehow.”

Honestly, John thought, seeing as it was Hosea who sent them out in the first place and the man was too perceptive for his own good, they may have already done that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Though this series has always been tagged pre canon, I’ve always imagined it as slightly AU mostly on the basis of ages—with the ages I’ve been picturing in my head for Arthur and John in this series, Abigail and Jack both should have definitely been around, and yet they haven’t been. So, in viewing it as an AU, I can say that in my own authorly canon for this series that I’ve always seen John and Arthur leaving the gang before things get too bad (with Hosea’s blessing) and going to live on a ranch somewhere raising horses. Abigail probably ends up there too, as do Charles and Tilly and Lenny and all the other folks who will be in the gang who deserve to live happy lives on a ranch somewhere.
> 
> If you’d rather just see this as an extension of canon, that’s obviously fine as well (death of the author and all that), but I’m always about giving these boys an out to live happy lives whenever possible. If you’re the same, feel free to take my interpretation of the ending. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading! I don’t foresee writing anything else for this series, but I hope this ending feels at least somewhat satisfying. If you enjoyed, let me know!
> 
> If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm at [werewolfsquadron](http://werewolfsquadron.tumblr.com).
> 
> -
> 
> Tangentially related, three very different songs I was listening to while writing this that may have had some influence, on tone if nothing else:
> 
> [Bullet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NeKM8rAl9xo) by Steel Train  
> [Cairo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7gIl9mcXA4) by San Fermin  
> [Old Black Train](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XrBYRqQ3tI) by The Blistering Company


End file.
